


Meet me at MX-3000N

by PeachBriseadh



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges, M/M, Office Sex, The Full Sex, and nooks, photocopier, secretary Dave, sexratery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 21:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15566520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/pseuds/PeachBriseadh
Summary: Karkat hates his fucking job, but it's not all bad.





	Meet me at MX-3000N

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/gifts).



> A little gift for Suz >: )

To be honest, you fucking hate your job. That might not be the case if you were in any way knowledgeable about it, but you are not, so it is. The only hands on experience you have with computers is destroying them. In that regard you are truly fucking gifted. But it’s not like it’s permanent. Once you’re done writing this book you know, you know, it will make it big and you can finally pull your miserable ass out of this hellfoundry cube farm.

Your phone pings, notifying you that one of the unfortunate desk jockeys needs technical assistance. Your face falls and your stomach flip flops as you see the number on the little screen. Dave Strider. God dammit.

Alright, so truthfully you’re not EXCEEDINGLY bad at your job. You exactly need a damn degree, just more knowledgeable than the pompous middle aged adults that fester inside these tiny vestigials of marketing putrefaction. Then there’s Dave. Since the moment you met him he’s made it his life goal to fluster you, piss you off wholeheartedly, or both. Simultaneously. He’s like a pocket of pure solar energy in this frigid, divided tech hell. You’ve fallen hard for his pleasing warmth, drawing you in again and again to burn the living shit out of your greedy hands. You’ve enjoyed your hot collared make out sessions in the storeroom. And the break room. And occasionally in his cubicle, but you barely see one another outside of work.

You’re stuck wondering if this is it? Should you back the fuck off now and save your pitifully soft pump biscuit the no doubt painful breaking it’s sure to suffer when Dave gets tired of this game? Tired of you? Would he even be interested in taking your wreckless flirting charade to the more invested levels of the dating hierarchy? Not that what you’re doing is anything even remotely close to actually dating. You’ve seen enough rom coms to know better.

Your brain warps and tumbles around the same old knots as you make your way to Dave’s desk where he has undoubtedly concocted some asinine excuse for you to serve him. When you look up, he’s got his roller chair out in the walkway, one hand pulling his “medical grade” sunglasses down, and a lecherous twinkle in his eyes. 

He winks.

You groan.

He paddles back into his cubicle on his squeaky oversized chair and you follow him in, trying your best to ignore the dumb as shit bric a brac he has shoved into his boxy little trashcan of a workspace. You cannot. You’re pretty sure some of this stuff is not appropriate for work, or all ages, or any human in general, for that matter. Let alone a professional workspace. 

“Heya, Kat.” He says. The poor chair squeaks in a very alarmingly unhealthy way as he turns to face you, both arms on the tattered armrests. You share a moment of silence for the squealing plastic.

“Dave. Do you actually have a problem or are you going to be my fucking problem?” You ask, trying to nip his bullshit in the bud. 

“Kat, come on.” He says, all mock hurt. “I would never be your fucking problem, but I’d gladly be your hella fine fucking solution.” His eyebrows jump up and down from behind his shades, a little crooked grin on his face. You feel yourself flush at the mention of. That. With Dave. 

“WHAT DO YOU NEED, STRIDER?” 

“Your sweet alien bul--“ you slap a hand across his mouth before he can finish that particular thread of words and point a clawed digit inches from his face. He picks his stapler up from the table and waggles it next to your head. You remove your hand. 

“I think it’s jammed.” He says, innocently. The mental image of him jamming his own stapler on purpose has the potential for humor, but the simple fact that you have to do the unjamming every single time he pulls this card just sucks the humor right out of it.

You snatch the stapler from his hand and peer down at it. You look back up at Dave who’s giving you and expectant, amused look. Without looking away from your own reflection in his shades, you unload the stapler with all the practiced, mechanical efficiency of a trained marksman cleaning his rifle. You give it one good knock with your palm and the offending staple projectiles into the mess that makes up Dave’s space. You lose it immediately. You clip the little machine back together just as mechanically. It all takes you about 8 seconds. You’re getting faster.

Dave looks up from his watch, “You’re getting faster, bro. Nice.” 

You sigh, and hand him the stapler back. 

“Is that all you needed?” You ask, checking your watch. The office will start closing down soon, and you’d like to be out of here by at least 7. 

Dave puts his hand over your watch, pulling at your wrist until you look up at him. He uses his legs to scuttle his chair forwards until your knees are framed by his. He leans up around you and past the little wall, bringing him very, very close. He looks both ways, checking left and right, then sits back down. 

“I have a sort of uh..” He holds your hand and you scowl in confusion. You let him find the words he needs, sorting through the outrageous number of syllabic prose he keeps locked up in his mind. “I have a surprise for you.” He says, a little too fast. You’re not sure you like that. His face flushes before you realize yours is twisting deeper into that confused scowl. He drops your hand and leans back is his chair, nervous.

“It’s not like a big deal or anything, if you’ve got shit to do, but I know you’re into gooey romantic surprises, not that this is like intrinsically romantic or gooey. Well, not yet, circumstances are right for sticky red showers though, if you catch my drift, unless my drift is out in bum fuck nowhere, Pacific Ocean. Out there on my own. Me, myself, and my stiffy. No coast guard for my fine ass, just miles and miles of shark infested waters, as far away from gooey as it gets-”

“DAVE.” You order, hands up. He quiets, dropping his face down. His hands sneak up to fiddle with the loose khaki fabric of your pants. It’s a soft, ticklish sensation against your thigh, right above your knee. You recalibrate your fucking brain to ignore it. “Dave, get to the point. What do you.. want me to do?” 

His face tilts to the side a fraction without looking up, a warm little smile on his lips. From this angle, his eyes are cast down, red irises visible from the tilt of his shades. The freckles along his cheeks and nose are entirely on display. Your heart hiccups, mad butterflies jousting inside your stomach. The last time you looked at him from this angle he was on his knees with you in the chair.

Uh. Anyways.

“Just meet me in the copy room, let’s say 8.” He flattens his hands against your legs and runs them up and down the fabric. It’s distracting. 

His face is as earnest as it ever looks, warm and welcoming, and you cave. Writing will have to wait. “Fine, Alright, just stop that.” You grab his hands and lift them off your legs. He curls his fingers around yours and kisses them before he scoots back and let’s you go. 

“8 o’clock Kat. It’s a date.”

—-

The rest of the day, all two hours of it, goes by painstakingly slow. Dave sends you a few memes to help the time go by faster, and you discuss the finer points of office life. Like the woman two cubes down that looks exactly like all the photos of her flat faced cat she posts all over her walls. 

Around 7:30, Dave goes silent without any kind of warning. The office is dead, save for the odd straggler and the buzzing of the cheap bulbs over your head. You loosen your tie and unfasten a couple buttons on your way to the copy room. By the time you make it back up to Dave’s floor it’s almost 8. You’re nervous. So fucking nervous. He’s never done anything like this before. You wipe your palms along the odd, waterproof material of your pants. Dave had spent almost twenty minutes pouring droplets of water down your knees when you first got them, amazed with how the liquid simply beaded up and rolled with gravity. You smile a little, thinking back. That was before you had even kissed him, and now look at you, off on romantic dalliances in a gloomy office building.

“That’s a good look for you, Karkat.” Says a familiar voice. Your eyes snap up as the smile slides away, embarrassment burning your cheeks for all of a split second before your eyes nearly pop out of your damn skull. There’s Dave, where he said he’d be. He changed clothes since that last time you saw him.

He’s standing, leaning against the copier on one elbow. He’s. 

You swallow hard.

He’s wearing a tight black pencil skirt that comes down to about three inches above his knees, a four inch split up one thigh. He’s got pantyhose on. You wonder vaguely if they’re the classic ones with the seam up the back like you’ve seen on old pinups. They hug tight to his legs, a soft satin sheen over the muscle of his calves, pulled tight from the effort of standing in those ungodly black pumps. 

Your hands clench at your sides.

A white blouse is tucked neatly into the high waist of the skirt, open midway down his chest. He's got lipstick on, a stunning cherry red that brings out the blush on his cheeks. Your breath hitches as he reaches up to take off his sunglasses and there’s.. another pair of glasses underneath. You laugh, nervous and giddy, edging on hysterical, as he smiles and adjusts his big secretary glasses on that handsome nose. They’ve even got the safety cord hanging from the arms. He smiles, closed mouth, the sharp edges of those demanding cherry lips curving up softly. 

“Uh.” You say. His smile widens, those surgically perfect white teeth peeking out from under all that hungry red. The apples of his cheeks round out, and his eyes shine carmine under the low light. Your mouth is suddenly very, very dry. You don’t know what to do. Your grey matter flat lines and pretty much dribbles right the fuck out of your ears to the cheap polyester carpet under your feet. Your heart jumps up into your throat to fill all the newly emptied real estate in your head with a hammering pulse. An idea finds purchase amongst all your throbbing, slippery thoughts. You lick your lips.

You’d like to touch him. You step forward. 

The copier comes up to just above his hips, something you hadn’t noticed until you watched his body uncurl from his comfortable posturing against it. The way the material slides over his hips and thighs is one of the hottest fucking things you’ve ever seen. He takes a step to meet you, and it you watch his legs in those shoes and realize it’s getting pretty fucking hot in this office. You clear your throat. 

“That’s. That’s one hell of a fucking surprise, Dave.” 

He giggles. The low, pretty sound rolls into your mind and wraps around your spine like a loose ribbon, warm and silky smooth. His hands fold and unfold the arms of his discarded sunglasses. You realize that he’s just as nervous as you are, probably more so in that get-up, and it spurs you on. You’re so turned on right now you wouldn’t be surprised if your bulge made an appearance by sight alone. 

“Thought you might like this. We talked a little about it, you know, but..” He shrugs. “I don’t know, it sounded uh. It sounded fun.” His eyes glance up to you between words, but end up somewhere around your chest. 

You need to steal yourself. He did this for you and if you don’t start showing you’re into this like you fucking know you are, he’ll start getting embarrassed and shut you out. You step forward and take his sunglasses from his worrying fingers, reaching around to set them on the copier. You lean in close to his face, sharing his breathing space for a moment. The lipstick smells floral and inviting, and you’re caught staring at his mouth. Dave takes in a sharp breath, his eyes flickering over your face. 

“That was weeks ago, Strider.” You lean back, finally lifting your hands to rest them on the tops of his hips. He sighs in what might be relief, or something else. “How the fuck do you still remember that?” You rub your thumbs in small, concentric circles against the skin just inside his hip bones. 

He puts one hand on your forearm, wrapping his fingers tight just below your elbows. The other comes up to lay flat against your chest, curling your tie between his fingers. 

He smiles, “I just uh- really liked the idea. And I had to ask Rose and Kanaya both for clothes so we better make this fucking worth it, because I’ll never live this down.” He laughs nervously at the end, bringing both hands up to your tie. He’s managed to untie it, passing it back and forth through the fingers of each hand. He smells amazing. The fucking nerd went as far as to put on some sort of soft perfume. You imagine the label would read something along the lines of Apple or Cherry Blossom. It’s maddening, like unfiltered ecstasy lifting up from his open collar. You lean forward and take a deep breath. He shivers under your palms and shifts his weight from one pointed toe to the next. “I picked that one out.”

“Good choice. I like it. You look..” You feel heat creep up your neck and redden your cheeks and ears. Chances are good your chest is flushed as well, not to mention the heat gathering at the base of your spine. You’re damn near tingly all over. 

“You look really fucking hot, Dave.” He brightens like a cherry tomato and smiles wide and it’s like getting kicked in the solar plexus this close. He’s blinding. You wonder if that lipstick is the kind that stands up against rough kissing or if it will smear messily under your lips. You sort of hope it’s the latter. 

“Was sort of hoping you’d say that.” His smile is lopsided and playful, made lecherous by all that vivid red. 

“You did this.. for me?” You ask stupidly, not able to control your mouth. No shit he did.

“Nah,” he says cooly. “It’s for me, but it’s cool if you enjoy it too.” He traces red nails up your chest to your collar bones. They burn against the skin of your neck as he traces them along the bones and tendons. Your chest kicks up a bass deep hum as he reaches his fingertips up to the sensitive dip under your ear. “Yess,” he hisses into your ear, “I live for your dope ass alien sounds.” He plants one palm on your chest and cards the fingers of his left hand through the soft hair at the base of your neck. You hum along with the smooth rattle in your sternum and slide your hands up his sides, leaning into the touch. Wow. The material is very fine. The skirt must have come from Kanaya. 

He presses his chest in closer and kisses your cheek. It’s a warm, sticky feeling as his lips pop off your skin and he leans back. If the shit eating grin on his face tells you anything, it’s that he definitely just left a wet, red stamp on your face. You lift one hand up to prod at the goopy print and yup, there it is. 

“Rose wouldn’t let me use her expensive shit so-“ he presses two finger to his lips and they come off stained. You zero in on his nails. The fucker has falsies on, long and red to match his lips. “We get the messy stuff.” He takes those two hot fingers and paints your lower lip, eyes on your mouth. “Red’s your color, Kat.” 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck-

That’s about the most you can handle and your mind gives out like a hot steel pipe under pressure. Your hips jump forward and you press him hard against the machine at his back, rattling it around as it slams against the wall in turn. Hands tight around his waist, you box him in with your legs and shoulders, kissing him with enough force to curve his spine over the copier. 

He hums appreciatively, thumbs on your cheeks and fingers sunk deep in the black curls around your ears. You can feel his dick press strained against the tight material of the skirt. That can’t be comfortable for him. Your own wet situation is picking up speed quickly, and you note with no shortage of satisfaction that Dave had the forethought to pick a room with a cheap linoleum floor. Your bulge pulses in its sheath and you groan into Dave’s open mouth.

You both take deep breaths through your nose as you busy your mouths with more important work, sucking and biting through a cloudy fog of apple blossom and red dye. Dave traces your canines with the smart tip of his tongue and leans back again, dragging his tongue across the ridged roof of your mouth. 

Breaking out of the lusty cloud you built up, you assess the damage you’ve wrought on one another. He’s got red smeared on one corner of his mouth, but by the looks of it, you’ve probably picked a lot of it off with your own face. Dave lets out a breathy laugh, and you give him a drunken smile. “Wow, you’re a hot mess,” he says, breathing heavy. You can only imagine how much is smeared around your mouth. You run your tongue over your front teeth and taste the flowery paste. 

“Yeah, well.” You say, not really intending to continue. Dave’s hands slide down your neck to your chest and start working away at the buttons, popping them open one at a time. He works to keep you on track. 

“I’m really gonna need your help here, KitKat, this skirt is fucking killing my boner.” You snort, and he laughs. He finishes with your shirt and tsks at the T-shirt underneath it. “No wonder you get all hot and bothered so fast, man. You’ve got too many layers on.”

“Oh, fuck off.” You tell him, shrugging off the dress shirt. You don’t know when he pulled the tie off your neck, but you drop the shirt down on the ground with it. Before it even hits the damn floor Dave has his hands tugging at your shirt. You slap them away. 

“Boo.” He pouts, and you don’t even try to stop the grin that takes over your face. He mentioned he needed help, and you’re more than willing to give it to him. Your bulge squirms at just the thought of having Dave like that, and you groan as your rumbling doubles over itself like a muffled chainsaw. Dave gets to grin this time. “Oh fuck yes, I know what that one means. Time to man the hatches, we’re taking on wat-” 

“SHUT the fuck up, Dave.” You hate that his goofy rambling makes you laugh every goddamn time, but what can you do. He grins and drops a hand down to your crotch without any fanfare, curling his finger around the curve of your sheath and up against the damp slit. You moan, rolling your hips down against his fingers. “Fuck.” The sound of tearing fabric breaks through the pounding in your ears and you’re pretty sure you just fucking maimed that pretty blouse.

“I bet the inside of these aren’t waterproof, huh Kat?” He whispers conspiratorially into your ear, running those long nails up your back with the other hand, coaxing you closer. The kiss you slam into his mouth is urgent and sloppy as he rubs two fingers back and forth across your slit in a dizzying rhythm. The feeling of slurry pooling under his fingers is all the warning you get before your buldge slithers out, rubbing against your globes as it exits. Dave moans with you, tracing the shape of it with his fingers as it coils inside the confines of your boxers, seeking friction.

His hands leave your crotch and snap up to your belt. Oh shit. You grab his wrists and pull them up against his chest, planting a quick kiss against his pouting lips. Then you let them go and drop to a squat in front of him. Dave looks surprised for all of .5 seconds then braces his hands against the machine. He licks his swollen lips, stained a whole different shade of slick, kiss-bruised red. He takes off the glasses and throws them clear across the room without even looking, widening his stance against the machine. “My, my, Mister Vantas, what are you doing on the floor?” His eyebrows do the most gratuitously impudent dance you’ve ever seen and you’re caught thinking that you must be a fucking lunatic to think he’s as hot as you do. Again. Hands on his thighs, you worship him, however painstakingly ridiculous he can be. Dave lets his chin drop around deep, open mouthed pants as you stare up at him. The hungry look on your face does wonders to shut him up.

“Where’s the zipper on this thing?” You ask without batting an eye. Dave whines and swallows.

“On the side, right uh- right here.” He brings his hand up and tugs at the zipper. Hmm. Actually. You grab his hand before he can pull it down and he looks at you, confused.

“Forget it. Leave it on.” Dave’s eyes go wide and he blushes from his collar up to the tips of his round ears. 

“No problem, nope, not even an issue.” He rambles. You roll your eyes and run your hands up the inside of his thighs, pushing his legs out as far as the material with allow. His legs look like a fucking wet dream perched up on those unreasonable heels, the muscles in his thighs and calves drawn tight. You curve your fingers right below the bump of his erection, under the skirt, and drag your claws down the thin material of the pantyhose. Dave curses above your head and shivers, the force of it rocking his knees. Next, you drop your fingers down his ankles and trace another sharp line up the back of his legs and to his shoulder draw up and chest rise as he takes in a sharp breath. Keeping on your path up the back of his thighs, you stop short of skirts hem and heft him up and backwards, sliding his ass onto the top of the copier. Dave's hands scramble for purchase, one digging nails into the meat of your shoulder and the other-

Gripping the open lid of the copier. You freeze, holding Dave’s legs open around your hips, bulge pressing forward in search of a nice warm place to slide into, the tight skirt rucked up to expose more of Dave’s wonderful legs. The lid is open on the copier.

“Dave. Do not tell me that this fucking machine is on.”

He looks from your face to his hand on the lid, to the buttons that control the thing, and then back again, fighting to pry sense from his woozy brain. Then he smiles, a crooked and mischievous grin that makes your bulge corkscrew against your pants. You shouldn’t have said anything.

“Not yet.” He says, and thumbs a button on the side. A sensible person, you think, somewhere far off out of your think pan, would stop right here. 

Today, you are not that person. 

Today, you are whatever Dave fucking Strider wants you to be. “God you’re insufferable,” you grind out, “Undo my damn belt, please, before I somehow manage to find some fucking sense.”

He leans in and pecks your lips, hands making quick work of your simple buckle. “Really, cus from here it looks like you’ve got plenty of fucking sense,” he says, coaxing your bulge into his hand after sliding your pants and underwear down your thighs in one aggressive pull. “Yes, fuck yes, there he is.” You’d be mortified if your brain wasn’t 100% focused on his warm fingers wrapped around the base of your soaked bulge.

Not about to let that go on any longer than it needs to, you ruck the skirt up to his waist and revel in the lush sigh of relief that slides out of Dave’s mouth. “Stop talking,” you tell him, grabbing the thin material of the pantyhose and tearing it wide open. Your claws are cut down to avoid hurting Dave, but the material gives up with very little fight. Dave balks, and stretches his legs out wide, leaning back on his free hand. His fingers land on a button and the copier lights up, warm and bright under his ass. The light flashes up between the gap of this thighs and glints off the red slurry coating your bulge. It’s not flattering, but you really couldn’t give a single savory fuck right now. 

Dave leans up and twists his hand in the front of your shirt, breaking you out of your spell, and pulls your entire body forward. He’s always stronger than you think he is. Your hips slot between his thighs and your bulge reaches out to curl the best it can around his dick under the black silk panties you just fucking noticed he’s wearing. Another block of sense melts away as the heat behind your bulge flares up your fucking spine and licks at the base of your mind. 

One of your hands finds the hem of his blouse, pushing it up to lay your palm flat against his skin. You can feel the muscles tense, the hellish heat of his body, the the rabbit fast pulse of his heart as his chest rises and falls with every pant. It’s intoxicating, being this close to his ecstatic rhythm. You will your bulge to back down for a hot second while you get these admittedly attractive panties out of your way. The pantyhose are in no way salvageable, so you shred them the rest of the way, then make to pull off the panties. Dave grabs your wrist and looks your right in the eyes. The copier does it’s little light show again, making the red of his eyes spark. You swallow. 

“Dude, just fucking tear them off, I don't plan on holdin’ onto ‘em.” He says in a rush of breath. Oh. You blink at him for a second, then slam your mouth shut. You can do that.

So you do. You take hold of the soft material and wish it a sad farewell, ripping the thin chords at his waist until you pull the unfortunate panties off and away to the floor to join the other casualties. Finally free, you can take in how fucking hard Dave has been up to this point. Which, is to say, very fucking hard. His faces scrunches up and his back arches a fraction, groaning and stretching. “Finally, I was dying in there, holy shit.” Before he can recover, you reach down and grab the backs of his knees again, pulling him forward into a more convenient angle. He squawks and braces himself again, his hand not on the copier’s door slapping against the wall next to his head. It’s a nice angle, legs spread and dick almost comically erect. Your bulge finds him easily and wraps around him from base to tip. Dave presses his head against his raised arm and moans, his legs squeezing your hips. “I’ve been thinking about this all fucking day, Kat, you have no idea.” Words tumble out of his mouth, but you barely hear them. Your bulge winds tighter around him and you roll your hips closer. Dave thrusts up into the air and cries out, sliding inside the tight, wet coils. “God-fuck. Okay, maybe all week, but who’s - aah, who’s counting.” You sure as fuck aren’t. You put a hand next to his waist for balance and coat your fingers in slurry, running them over the soft folds of your nook. Dave groans, watching you collect the semi-translucent red material on your fingers. He knows what you’re doing, it’s a trick you’ve utilized on him before. Your fingers dip under his balls and past the soft skin behind them until you find what you're looking for. When your finger presses wet against his entrance, he jolts, rolling his hips and letting out a soft whimpering moan. The flash goes off again. 

As you press your first finger in, Dave works on steadying his breath and relaxing. One becomes two in no time. At three, he reaches down and unwraps your bulge, twisting and pumping it with practiced hands. Your fingers stutter on the rhythm you had going to work him open, and you press your thighs against the machine to get close to his clever hand. You work one another until Dave lets go, signal enough to get on with it. You’re both closer than you’d like to be at this point, burning and sweating and pushed to the edge. Your hands find there hold behind his knees again, and you let your bulge take the lead. It slides around his inner thigh, laying a thin pink sheen across his skin. You pull him forward one more time, and your bulge slides home, pressing the tip inside easily. Dave breaths out, a beautiful smile on his flushed face, and you push forward on instinct. He knocks his head back against the wall and his mouth falls open as you push into him. The hum in your chest vibrates your fucking bones as you click and moan. His legs fit around you and hook at the small of your back, locking you in. Your bulge curls and rubs against his walls, greedy for friction. You fill him perfectly.

Like you were made to fill this role with him. Like he was made to fit to you. 

“Holy shit, Kat.” He breathes. Oh fuck, you must have said that last part out loud. 

“My best role yet, man.” He pants, and winks at you the best he can with his features struggling against the pleasure racking his body. “Your sexy secretary. Sexretary. Hnn- And hey, fuck- looks like I'm about to get at your Golden Globes.”

“DON'T.” You tighten your grip under his knees and push, pressing as deep into him as you can. He cries out and clenches around your bulge, and you sing right along with him. Dave starts up his own quick pattern of rolling his hips, both of your voices rising and falling with the crash of his rhythm. You let one of his legs go in favor of his dick, pumping in time with his hips. A throaty growl tears up your chest and rattled out with a moan on one of Dave’s harder rounds, and he just about scream when you twist your hand around the head of him in retaliation. You can feel your own slurry drip and invade the inside of your pants, covering the inside of his thighs and dripping down the outside wall of the copier. Dave warrants your attention with a wet moan and you watch his face, your jaw clenched around a growl. He’s a writing mess, sweat holding the white blouse tight to his shoulders and chest, moaning and whimpering, but somehow

Some-fucking-how, he finds it in him to throw his body forward and dig those ceramic nails straight into your shoulder, anchoring his legs tighter around your hips and sides as he hooks two fingers inside your sheath and straight to your fucking globes. “Told you I- Ah, fuck come on- told you I’d get to those Golden Globes.” It’s ridiculous. It’s so fucking cheesy and silly and hot and you thank fuck you’re made to stand up against trolls because those nails on your back and globes are no joke. You yell, hoarse under the strain of your entire body reacting to the pressure of his fingers, the tight heat of being inside him, the nails in your back and you pump him hard, desperate to keep up with his sensory overload.

Dave’s back aches into a beautiful curve as he comes, moaning your name, high and loud and satisfied. The sound of him reaching climax shatters your resolve, while the clench of his body does the rest, and your shoved violently over the edge. Dave’s fingers, magic as they are, never stop. You work one another through it the best you can manage through the fuck-drunk haze behind your eyes. The room becomes a cacophony of drips and moans and gasps as you bundle him up for sloppy kisses, letting his legs relax around your waist, arms wrapping around your neck as you brace your shaking hips against the copier. You both break the kiss and press your forehead tight together, panting and coming down from the torrent. Dave starts giggling, looking down at the messes you’ve made out of one another, and you laugh with him.

“Holy shit.” Yeah, you’d have to agree with I'm there. Not that you’re up to forming words yet.

Dave hangs heavy around you as your bodies bounce along with your heaving breaths. His hands are the first thing to wake up and move, rubbing around your shoulders and back, sliding against the length of your ribs and arms. You hum as he works, closing your eyes and letting him wander over your shoulders. He kisses your jaw softly, then kisses your closed eyes. You chuckle, and feel his lips pull into a smile. When he dips in to kiss your lips, it’s sticky sweet and shaped like a grin. His hands come up to your neck and rest. 

You finally get back into your head enough to rub your own hands up and down his sides. Your buldge slides out of him, drawing a tender moan from both of your throats. Dave’s legs shake against you, over sensitive. He’s probably fucking filled with slurry and when he stands up it’s going to be a whole fucking mess. The thought brings heat flooding to your face and you press into the crook of his neck to hide. He laughs and rubs your back some more. The room is quiet now, save for a ticking clock and the gently tune Dave started to hum. He does that, sometimes, when he’s feeling good. Happy.

You kiss his neck, nothing sexy, just appreciating him. He lets his hands drag down the back of your arms when you lean back and take a deep, calming breath. He holds onto your hands as they fall into his. 

“Yeah. Holy shit.” You answer. He grins, sleepy and absolutely fucking filthy, sitting on top of that poor machine. You wouldn't be surprised it you two managed to put a dent in the drywall behind it. Dave reaches over the edge of the machine and hits a button. You forgot he even turned it on. The paper he pulls up is black and white and more clear than you’d like to admit. It’s his ass, pressed against the glass. The paper shakes in his hands, sending a little spike of pride through your chest and straight to your ego. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” You say,taking the paper and crushing it between your fingers. Dave doesn't pout, he just leans to the side against and pulls up a fat stack of them. They’re evidence. Still frames that would play out like old black and white movies if you put the images together fast enough. Not that you would. Dave is looking at you like he’s thinking the same thing, but absolutely would. He’d do it. You need to take those away from him.

“Hey, how’s about we post these around the office and act all offended and shit?” He says.

No, no no you should absolutely not do that. You tell him so, but he disagrees. 

“Nobody will know dude, nobody’s gonna Sherlock Holmes this fuckin’ mystery.” He reasons. You do not concede. 

“Fuck no, we are NOT doing that.”

He makes a disappointed face, but comes to reason. “Alright fine. I guess it’s better this way. If we got caught we couldn’t do this anymore.” He says, dropping the stack back down on the tray. 

Any more. Like again. Like you would be seeing one another. Oh. That reminds you. 

“Uh, Dave.” You say, bracing his hips to help lift him up off the copier. He answers you with a little hum, keeping one hand on your shoulder so he can bend over and take his shoes off. He’s got doe legs and it’s fairly satisfying, even if you’re not faring much better. He throws them to the side and smooths out his skirt. The blouse is a fucking mess. He gives it one look and shrugs.

“What’s up Kat? You okay?” He asks. You’re took to long to respond. He rubs your shoulder and looks you right in the face. No matter how messy his is, he’s still beautiful. You want him more than you’ve probably wanted anything in your fucking life. You grasp for straws.

“Are we- uh. Do you..” You're having a hard time here.

“Are we…? Dude, you were supposed to fuck my brains out, not your own. Unless my fingers were just too much to handle.” He teases, and you laugh nervously.

Just say it you coward.  
“Dave would you want to date me? I mean, officially? Or I guess just.. I don’t fucking know, do you want to be my boyfriend??” There.

Dave looks shocked for a second, eyes wide and eyebrows up to his hairline. He opens his mouth and lets it hang for a few beats. When he closes it, he licks his lips and runs a hand through his loose, sweaty hair. His makeup in still flawless, save your the smeared lipstick.

“Wow. Uh.” He clears his throat. “Yeah? I mean, weren’t we sort of already dating?” 

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You settle for a good old fashion verbal reprimand.

“NO DAVE. Finding one another in moments of passion in AN OFFICE BUILDING after hours multiple times a week is not DATING.”

He looks away sheepishly, pulling his hands off you to fiddle with the hem of his blouse. You sigh. Before you can backtrack and try to fix anything, he speaks up.

“Sorry dude, I mean. Yes? Yeah. Yeah let’s do it. I’ll be your boyfriend.” He looks up at your shocked face and immediately drops his gaze back down. You swallow and bring your hands up to his cheeks, lifting his face. You kiss his red, embarrassed face and thank the gods, any one of them that might be around, and kiss him again. He finally lifts his hands to your shoulders and kisses you back, giggling between chaste pecks. 

“We should uh. We’ve got some cleaning up to do.” Yeah you do. Dave somehow managed to bring both of you sweatpants and t-shirts, which tells you a lot about how prepared he was for this little theatrical affair. You joke and flirt while you clean up, bantering and kissing whenever you’re close enough. You did, in fact, put divots into the wall, and if the lid of the copier is just a little loose, who’s to say it wasn’t someone else? 

You leave Dave’s truck and take your car to get a late dinner. He stays the night, and you do it all over again. You wake up to him next to you, drooling open mouthed, a squeak to his nose. You’ve never been so happy.

That is until Monday when you show up late and there’s photocopies of a very familiar ass posted up on every fucking cork board on your floor. 

You really fucking hate your job.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr for art things](http://thedoublepp.tumblr.com/)


End file.
